


The Things that Hunt

by kaeorin



Series: Loki's Lullabies [40]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Nightmares, Quarantine, Reader-Insert, Singing, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24013843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Just a bit of a stream-of-consciousness ramble about the nightmares that grip Loki and how you try to help him.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Series: Loki's Lullabies [40]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678240
Comments: 10
Kudos: 153





	The Things that Hunt

Given enough time, humans could adapt to just about anything. After weeks and weeks, life almost felt normal. Not the old normal, the one that had been normal for most of your life, but...newly-normal. Office meetings via webcam. Shopping in a mask. Sleeping next to Loki. There was still a lot of uncertainty and fear during the day, but having Loki so close at night did a lot to get you through it. 

When he’d first come to stay, he hadn’t slept much at all. It was almost enough to make you wonder if maybe nights on Asgard were significantly shorter, or if Asgardians just didn’t need to sleep as much as humans did. Loki never seemed especially sleepy during the day, and of course the delicate skin beneath his eyes was never marred by even the slightest hint of a dark circle. But as time wore on, and he became more comfortable in your space, he did start sleeping a little longer. The same night that he referred to the bedroom as “our bedroom” (making you have to fight hard to blink back tears of happiness so he wouldn’t realize that you’d caught the slip), he fell asleep first and stayed asleep even after you woke up and go out of bed.

You took a little too much pleasure in watching him move through the tiny apartment. He’d spread out more and more, taking up more space on the coffee table with books and mugs, taking up more space on the couch with his body. At first, he’d been exceedingly tidy, but over time, you began to realize that that was only his discomfort. As he started to adjust to living with you, you found little hints of him here and there—not a mess, never a mess, but just...signs that he lived there. Although you knew it was a common trope in television and movies, for one partner to hate the things that they other partner left out, you treasured them. You hated having roommates, but you loved having Loki.

Unfortunately, increased nightmares went along with Loki’s increase of sleep. Sometimes they woke him up. Sometimes you would wake up in the middle of the night because Loki had pulled away and sat up on the side of the bed. Sometimes he had to leave and spend the rest of the night by himself. Sometimes he would let you kneel behind him and slide your arms around him and just hold him for a while. On those nights, you would kiss his neck and tell him over and over again that he was safe. That you loved him.

More often, though, he slept through them. His body would pull away from you and he’d roll onto his back. His eyebrows would furrow in the darkness and sometimes his hands would twitch, like his body was trying to fend something off. He would groan. If the movement didn’t wake you, the sounds always did. Even when you were fully awake, the sounds he made always sent a chill through you. He sounded hopeless. Horrified. He spoke sometimes, mumbling words that you couldn’t understand. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was saying. Was he pleading with someone? Threatening them? You hated how weak he sounded when he dreamed. Whatever—or whoever—he dreamed about, it made him so small. 

When things seemed really bad, you’d wake him up. He’d startle, then freeze beside you until he realized where he was. Usually he’d cover his face with his hands and draw several deep breaths, clearly trying to regain control. But you didn’t like waking him up because, sometimes, he’d get out of bed anyway. In the morning, he’d apologize for disturbing you, and never seemed to accept that he hadn’t. He always seemed...ashamed. It broke your heart but you couldn’t find the right words to reassure him.

So, more often, you simply tried to shift the dream. Some part of your brain started paying attention, waiting for him to release you and roll over. When he did, it woke you up, and you’d turn onto your other side so you could face him. If you woke up quickly enough, it seemed that you could prevent the dreams entirely. You could press closer to him and put your head on his shoulder, and drape your arm over his stomach as though you could protect that vulnerable part of him. You’d press gentle kisses to the underside of his chin and nuzzle him in the darkness, and sometimes he’d lift his hand to let it rest against the back of your head and he’d sigh. If you didn’t wake up quickly enough, and his face was already starting to contort, you would still move closer to him, but you’d smooth your hand over his brows. If that wasn’t enough, you’d sing to him, softly and in your awful sleep-rough voice, but he wasn’t awake enough to notice or care. Mostly you made up songs there on the spot. You’d sing to him about how beautiful he was in the moonlight, or how he made your insides feel all fluttery, like butterflies. Sometimes you’d sing to him about how he was safe here with you and you’d never let anything hurt him again. Once, you made the mistake of singing to him that you’d die before you let anything happen to him, and maybe more of him was listening to you than you’d thought, because that didn’t seem to help. Instead, he’d groaned again and reached out with his arm as though to push you away.

Okay.

Light topics only.

When you didn’t sing, you made up stories, mostly fairy tales. There was always a prince, gorgeous and powerful, and he was usually under a curse. But he fought his way through, or he sought help from the people around him, and there was always a happy ending. You found that he didn’t much seem to care what you spoke—or sang—to him about: just hearing your voice would ease the tension in his body and let him drift to other dreams. Dreams that didn’t terrify him. 

It was kind of a strange feeling, knowing that your silly, mortal voice could take care of whatever horrors chased him, but you didn’t let yourself dwell on it often. When you felt him relax beside you, you would simply drape your leg over his and nestle your head against his shoulder and hold him tightly until you fell back to sleep.

Every now and then, you’d hear him humming your song from the night before as he went through his morning routine in the bathroom.


End file.
